It's a miracle Fiesi doesn't react as I stumble through our room's door, sweating and panting, the hinges creaking in my trembling grip. He's more still than he was earlier, sprawled under the sheets. Perhaps he finally managed to burrow his way into sleep.

I have no such luck. Practically collapsing to the floorboards, I curl into a tight ball, making a feeble attempt to shut my eyes.

All that waits behind them is her face. Her wide, lifeless eyes. Her ghostly skin. I bite down on my lip, tasting blood, desperate to hold back the broken whimper that builds in my throat. I won't cry. It's useless.

The stinging scent of death clogs my throat in place of tears, leaked like smoke from the burned image of Edita. All I can do is screw my eyes shut and pray it doesn't choke me.

There's no way of knowing if I ever succeed in falling asleep. It feels like an age later when a knock on the door finally jolts through my suffocating silence.

Lifting my head, I scrub at my eyes, hoping my tears have dried by now. "Yes?" The break in my voice makes me wince.

The door cracks open to reveal Sarielle, the faded lantern light slanting her face in striped shadow. Her eyes are dimmed to a dusty grey-blue. "Hey," she says softly, one corner of her mouth lifting. "I see Fiesi hogged the bed."

I shift upright, rolling the stiffness from my shoulders. "I let him."

"Of course you did." With a sigh, she slips through the door and into the room. "Is he awake?"

All I can offer is a shrug. Perhaps I did drift somewhat close to sleep, for my thoughts are bleary, effort needed to tease them apart. My head is heavy, stuffed with cotton. I'm in desperate need of rest as it is, and yet I've squandered the entire night on futile longing and the taunt of ghosts. If only I knew the meaning of the phrases Fiesi uses to curse under his breath.

Sarielle has crossed to the bed, close enough to the lantern that her features brighten in full illumination, and now inspects him with a mischievous glint in her eyes. She folds her arms. "He looks rather cute when he's asleep."

"I always knew you secretly admired me, Sarie."

He sounds even less alert than I do, but his voice still drips with satisfied pride. She doesn't let it falter her. As he struggles to sit up amongst his tight nest of sheets, she stretches out a hand, ruffling his hair until he ducks away. "Cute like a little child, Fiesi. You're adorable."

He scoffs, turning his back to her as he swings his legs over the bed's side. "I'm older than you are."

"A child is defined by more than his years."

He huffs, although gaze softens as it lands on me. "Morning, Nathan. You're worth talking to. Did you sleep alright?"

"Yes. Fine." The lie tastes sour on my tongue. I'm glad his attention hasn't fully moved to me.

"Good." He stands, stretching his arms above his head as he throws a glance over his shoulder at Sarielle. "To what do we owe the pleasure of your company at this early hour?"

"We're leaving as soon as everyone's ready." She's begun straightening out the sheets, smoothing them out with practised movements. She tucks their ends under the pillow and briefly meets his eyes. "Unfortunately, you're the one we're relying on to lead the way, so I'd be grateful if you could attempt some haste."

He drags a hand through his hair. "Yeah, alright. Give me a few minutes."

It's reluctant compliance, but she accepts it, sweeping from the tidied bed back to the door. She waves a hand to beckon me. "Nathan, do you mind helping me with the horses?"

I jump to my feet without thought. "Of course."

I throw only a single glance back at Fiesi as she leads me out into the hall. His hand remains buried in his mess of hair as he rocks on his heels, as if the floor beneath him is a boat tossed onto turbulent waves. My step falters, although I tear my gaze away after only a moment and continue. He's lost. Perhaps I should stay behind, yet I can hardly find my own way, let alone aid him with his. Still, guilt squirms deep in my chest as we wind down the staircase.

This is my fault. It's my selfish pleas that drove him to agree to this journey. If I were stronger, braver, maybe I would hurry back, tell him that we don't have to do anything on my behalf. My answers are not vital. My flame is not something to crave, not a blessing I should will to return.

But I'm not strong, and I'm not brave. I'm desperate and tired and hurting. And so I cross the tavern in silence and follow Sarielle out of the same doors I burst through just last night, tasting the same cool air. It's dampened with the threat of rain.

I need someone in Aorila to have my solution. I need these binds to break. If that fails, I don't know what I'll do.

- ⋆⋅♛⋅⋆ -

The rain delivers little over an hour later. It's merely a thin patter, but the exposed nature of our path gives it plenty of allowance to soak us through. At least it excuses my damp gloves.

I pull the hood of Fiesi's cloak lower, knowing full well its shield has given out. With my resilience to the cold diminishing, I hate the icy droplets that trickle through all the more, shivering at the way they stick to my skin. My hands, never warm to begin with, are now impaled with a thousand needles, searing fiercely cold. They cramp as I cling to my horse's black mane.

When I peer ahead, I can make out Fiesi sunk low on a russet-coloured horse some distance ahead. He's leading us back in the direction of the mountains, although I can't be sure if we plan on reaching them. He's said very little.

Doubt strings Cyneric and Reuben in a constant thread of exchanged mutters, but they follow along with us regardless. Sarielle's reassurance must carry weight. She drifts from them to Fiesi to the rest of the regiment, manoeuvring her own horse with swift ease. That was the king's generous contribution. He purchased enough horses for every one of us to ride.

All I'm grateful for is the chance to avoid notice. My encounter with Reuben last night, peaceable as it was, has left an uncomfortable squirming in my stomach that deepens whenever he grows near. I'm desperate to avoid another exchange. I don't want to hear his voice dragged at by apology, see sincerity soften the hard lines of his face.

"Am I being cruel?"

I jump in my saddle, feet almost sliding free of the stirrups. I wriggle them back into place as I twist towards the musing string of Sarielle's voice cast my way. She's pulled her horse up alongside mine, although her gaze wanders elsewhere, resting on the distant form of Fiesi hunched over his mount. Every one of his limbs is tensed, as if threads sewn into his skin have been yanked taut. It can't be comfortable.

"He's not faking it to be difficult," she adds. My focus darts back to her to find her brows creased. "He's really scared."

I wind my hands over the reins if only to release a little of my jittery nerves. "He isn't the only one."

Her eyes jerk my way, the daylight dusting them in crystal glitter. Her hand stretches out, briefly hovering over my shoulder before retracting the pat it aimed to deliver. "I'm sorry." She twirls her fingers around a tuft of her horse's grey-white mane, a faint sigh drifting from her lips. "I wish there was another way, but I've thought about it in circles as we've travelled. There's no safer place."

"I know," I say, offering her a smile in reassurance to cover the pain that must have shown in my expression. "I meant what I said yesterday. I do need to go to Aorila." But for my own selfish reasons, not her noble idea of protection. I resist the urge to drag my nails over my bind. Swallowing before the words can crawl up my throat, I look back to Fiesi. "Didn't you tell me once that we only grow when we do what's difficult?"

Her chuckle is shaped as something between surprise and amusement. "Honestly, I don't even remember."

"You did. When you were first teaching me to use a sword."

My eyes must drift her way without command, for I watch her quirk of a smile form. "It's a good thing I have you to recall my occasional glints of wisdom."

I rub at the back of my neck, diminishing the heat rising there with a cold hand. "Listening to you is the one thing I'm good at."

Golden strands of hair fall over her face as she drops her head. "I missed you, you know," she says. "Sometimes I'd feel words form on my tongue, something I wanted to tell you, then turn and remember how far away you were." The sparkle in her eyes dims a little. "It's silly, really. But sometimes thoughts just... They won't let themselves be voiced in front of others, no matter how badly I want them to leave my head. I felt as if I could tell you anything."

I'm sure my heart has sprouted wings, beating them with a force that tingles through my nerves, filling my head with a rapid fluttering. It whips up gusts that make it difficult to catch hold of the words to reply with. "You still can tell me anything." They sound hollow, nowhere near enough.

How to reflect her trust with ten times the force? How do I tell her just how much she meant to me, how much she still means?

I flounder too long and miss my chance, for she is continuing, a sterner note entering her tone. "The reverse applies. Don't think I haven't noticed that you're hurting."

All at once, the wings droop, the winds stilled. Fighting to keep myself from touching my chest, I turn away. "I'm fine."

"You're not." Her voice is a silken ribbon, its gentle caress over my skin only stirring up guilt. I stand before a yawning pit wide enough to swallow me whole, its bottom deep enough to pool black and edges cracking at my heels, and yet still I spread my arms wide in a pathetic effort to hide it from view. "And that's okay," she adds, another loop of the ribbon tugging my gaze back towards her. She meets my eyes with level determination. As if this is a battle she's desperate to win, her only weapon the hand she stretches towards me. I let it coil over my wrist. Our horses' flanks almost brush up against one another.

"I'm fine," I repeat, although the words crumble before they've even left my lips.

"The binds hurt you, don't they?"

Her fingers slide down, touching the edge of my bind. It's still damp. I wince. "Yes." A simple answer that wields claws too large for such a small sound.

Her expression hardens. "I'm going to kill that man for what he's done to you."

"It's not..." Snatching my hand back, I let it drift to my middle, thumb pressing on a vague spot for no real purpose. The pain is nowhere near the surface. "There will be someone in Aorila who can remove them. There has to be. When they're gone, I won't be weak anymore."

Only briefly, her eyes dart downwards. They flash with something fierce as they rise again. "You're not weak."

My fingers curl inward. I am hopelessly weak, hardly able to stand on my own two feet without unsteadiness taking hold, clinging onto the will to keep going, but I dare not voice that and ruin her ringing surety. Yet I cannot lie to her, and so instead I look down, my hand drifting to trace the scar on my cheek.

"Sarielle," I begin, hearing the quiver in my voice before I've even formed the question. "Are ghosts real?"

Her exhale shakes, as if it started as a laugh before the humour was hurriedly drained from it. "Why do you ask?"

"I think..." I rub at the scar, that subdued instinct to erase it with mere force returning. "I think I saw one. Last night. A ghost."

I'm too nervous to lift my head, to see disbelief or mockery flood her expression. She must think me to be finally falling to insanity. She wouldn't be entirely wrong, but her tone emerges low, shockingly serious. "The ghost of someone you killed?"

All I can do is nod.

She lets out a strained sigh. "Are the nightmares getting worse?"

A yes balances on my tongue, but I swallow it. Subconscious dreams I can handle myself. "This wasn't a nightmare. I was awake."

"Are you sure?"

Now comes the doubt. Chest tight, I wrench my gaze to hers, pour in certainty. "I'm sure. I... saw her outside the tavern."

She stiffens. "This was last night? You left the tavern?"

My fingers tangle with the reins as I nod, shame balling in my stomach. "I'm sorry. I needed some air." She doesn't need to know how far I strayed, how many lit windows I passed that might have caught me run past. I'm afraid the beginnings of anger I sense will strike her gaze in bolts of lightning.

What does linger there is gone in an instant. She smiles, just faintly. "It's okay. I understand."

No, you don't. The barbed thought nearly escapes. It scratches as I swallow it.

"Is she the same one from your nightmares?"

My head is almost too heavy to nod. "Edita." Even speaking her name spikes the aches sprawling inside me. "The one who... who stabbed me." I grip the reins harder rather than touching my heart.

Her face turns to the sky, to the path ahead, her features lit in a tan glow. "It sounds like you're seeing things," she says. "Dreams creeping into reality. That can happen. You just have to really tell yourself it isn't real."

"But..." I bite down on the protest. She's right. She has to be. And yet I can still feel the jagged edge of that broken blade, its cool press on my throat. "So ghosts aren't real."

Her lips pull upwards, just slightly. "Some believe so. They think ghosts are souls with unfinished business, clinging to the earth rather than allowing themselves to glide on up to the stars."

Unfinished business. The reins dig into my palm through the glove, thick and coarse. "But you don't?"

"No." She drops her head, studying the twitching ears of her horse, her frown thoughtful. "If every soul with something unfinished lingered on the earth, the place would be teeming with them. Few people die with completeness, and certainly not in times of warfare such as these. Besides, how could anyone truly resist the pull of the stars?"

The stirring in my stomach startles me. Even with Edita's lifeless image staining my thoughts, I can't help but be pulled in by the mesmerising draw of Sarielle's words. I have to focus to extract myself from that wonder. "What if my power works differently? What if--"

"The dead stay dead, Nathan," she says with gentle firmness, "no matter how they're killed." Her smile softens, and she reaches for my hand this time, taking it loosely. "It'll be alright, really. This will pass. It will get better."

It's so easy to be swept up in the unfiltered certainty of her voice, believing whatever she says without question. I have to battle to resist. "How do you know?" I ask quietly.

"Because it has to." Sadness taints her expression as her other hand slips from the reins, brushes over the hilt of the sword at her hip. "My dreams are painted in blood too, sometimes. It hurts, I know. We have to have faith it'll improve or we'll fall apart."

Thoughtlessly, I nod. All I can offer in reply is a wordless squeeze of her hand, my smile so strained it barely forms.

Perhaps that's why I'm breaking. I've forgotten how to hope. I simply need Sarielle's guidance to remind me of its importance, chase away that sinking feeling of its futility.

"Sarielle, look!"

My inhale is a blade, thrusting my hand from hers. Reuben's horse up ahead has come to a brief stop, the others slowing to peer after his lifted arm in response to his call, as he twists to look over his shoulder at us. His eyes glint in the reflection of sunlight. Beside me, Sarielle leans forward, then lets out a soft gasp.

"Nathan," she whispers, nudging my dangling arm with the hand that formerly gripped it. Hers is a voice I can't resist. I follow where her gaze points.

A white shape separates itself from the broken sheet of grey cloud that clogs the sky. A bird, snowy wings startlingly wide at full stretch, slitted rays catching its beak in brilliant gold. It soars in a seamless glide over us. As it passes to the other side of the path, I spot the dark speckle that cascades along its fanned tail before it swoops lower into the trees and out of sight.

"A white falcon," Sarielle breathes. I look back to see the awe that lights her eyes. I'm not used to her being the one caught in such amazement.

Despite myself, I grin back. "Oscensi's symbol?"

She nods, craning her neck around me as if it will shoot back out of the trees in order for us to drink in the view a second time.

"A good omen if I ever saw one!" Reuben is quite different from his sombre appearance last night, alive with the radiance of hope I see so often in Sarielle.

"A blessing from the stars," she calls in echo, exchanging a meaningful glance with me.

Cyneric turns, doubt setting his lips in a flat line. "It'll take more than a bird to save this kingdom. Keep moving, Reuben."

He offers his agreement and the party resumes its trot, yet our pace quickens as if even the horses sense this newfound shred of hope carrying us aloft. I cling to it, wrap it tight around my prayers until they leap upon wings of their own and dive into the dim sky. The rain has diminished to a trickle now, near fading entirely. More sunlight cracks through the cloud.

Faith might make up most of what we have, but with Sarielle beaming it so strongly beside me, I cannot doubt it. This is the right move, the quest that will carry us forward.

As always, she is right. The dead don't matter, ghosts or not. I'm still alive, and soon, with the solution that awaits me in my forgotten home, I'll be able to breathe again.

───── ⋆⋅♛⋅⋆ ─────

See!! I brought you fluff!!! Aren't I nice :D

I live for these two interacting. They're the best. And Sarielle is kinda fun to write, when she's talking like this. It's fun to explore her views on the world. We all need a good optimistic friend to keep us grounded.

Especially right now. Nathan be strugglin :/

- Pup